


In Which Jamie Gets Things Wrong, But Still Wins

by wishwellingtons



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Community: the_thickofit, Jealousy, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishwellingtons/pseuds/wishwellingtons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm fucks Jamie. It's not really more complicated than that.*</p><p>*This is a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Jamie Gets Things Wrong, But Still Wins

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010, and then lost. Prompted by itchy_stitches; remembered by alichay. I had no memory whatsoever of writing this, but it was indeed me, and I thought I'd archive it! Enjoy.

Jamie Macdonald had long accepted that Malcolm was the visionary in their relationship. Malc's brain was so complicated, so shiny-twisty clever, that it could make dazzling leaps of logic and counter-fuckery in the time it took most sad munters to wipe up their dribble. Jamie's body-burning, fire-fighting, grave-robbing and even bin-raiding skills might be _second to none_ (indeed, a squadron of Scotch Catholics well-trained in the Macdonald Method(s) were now operating as bin-raiders and cat-burglars both for and against the the London Metropolitan Police, not to mention the thriving Jamie Macdonald School of Arson back in Motherwell), but Malcolm was the colossus, one who'd been up to the sacred hill and co-authored the next ten years of history with God on a succession of iPad tablets. Malcolm was the scheming paranoiac who designed labyrinths in his sleep.  
  
Jamie Macdonald was the man who _got things right_.  
  
Jamie could identify a wazzed-up MP at ten paces and tell you if it was plant food, LSD or coke. He could detect the slightest whiff of three-day vodka, and served as a psychotic, Scottish dowsing rod when called to identify who was putting their cock in whom. He knew that Glenn Cullen couldn't really get it up, but when he did it was to the wee lassie with the blonde hair falling out, that Angela Heaney was a secret dyke, and that Baron von Queer, Julius Gaylord Bumcrack, was a compulsive eater with lecherous designs on his third cousin.   
  
He knew, too, from day one (and with the certainty of _missionary zeal_ ) that what Malcolm Tucker, new deputy editor of the _Scottish Herald_ , _most needed_ was his, Jamie's frankly fantastic cock up his arse. He knew, twelveish years later, that what the asthma-coloured, mad-eyed Director of Spin and Envoy to the Dark Lord  needed was _still_ Jamie's cock up his arse. And in his mouth. And, often, all of Jamie, wrapped round him in his dust-coloured wankcube of a designer bed, just to ensure the miserable paranoid impossible _git_ could get some _sleep_.   
  
This was the arrangement (arrangement was a key word). It got everything right. They could leave the fucking jessie diamonds stuff to wankstain sissies who made pretty speeches and gave each other _teddy bears_ (Jamie's _entire knowledge_ of functional gay relationships was based on speculation regarding Julius and his cousin, glimpsed once at a  Whitehall drinks party, at whom Jamie had squinted _very hard_ ). It would have been marginally better if Malcolm had bought crisps when Jamie asked him to, and relaxed his fucking _Stalinist_ rules about not letting Jamie smoke in the house.   
  
The only problem was that Malcolm kept wanting to fuck him. And Jamie _knew_ that to _do this_ would be to get _everything wrong_.

Giving Jamie unfettered access to _his_ arse had never been Malcolm's goal, but from the third or so time Jamie shoved him down against bed, desk or _floorboards_ and said _mine_ , Malcolm's attempts to _plan_ or even _control_ their sex life had devolved into "just _let Jamie fuck me_ ", to the satisfaction of all (BOTH, strictly BOTH, even if Jamie did occasionally have certain unmentionable fantasies about Malc under certain hands - fuck OFF, it was never happening, he'd obviously _kill_ before he offered to _share_ ) persons involved.  
  
Malcolm'd imagined a hundred times the way he'd fuck Jamie - snapping _you're mine_ in the middle of a fight, outwitting Jamie somehow; bending Jamie over a desk and teaching him a lesson; perhaps even letting a few things _slip_ in the name of seeing Jamie's eyes take up most of his face, the way they _always_ did when Malcolm managed a _sweetheart_ or _darlin'_ in the midst of 'you fucking _prick_ , take your feet off my sofa, this isnae _feeding time_ at the _zoo_ _'._ Getting Jamie ready and desperate and _incoherent_ , then taking him inch by inch until he was helpless and sweaty, trembling around Malcolm's cock.  
  
Also, you couldn't see Jamie's arse without wanting to fuck it. Malcolm jealously guarded this fact and this portion of the psychomidget's anatomy, against all (and in Malcolm's mind it really was _all_ ) comers. Jamie's work clothes might look like a bastard collection of novelty props, and he might have _no idea_ how to wear a suit, but occasionally, _just occasionally_ , Motherwell's crossest would manage a pair of trousers not made for a tall fat man, and leave off the jackets nicked from dead Headmasters. And THEN, Malcolm would spend _all day_ stalking the corridors and wanting to _gouge_ the eyes of every queeny fucker who glanced up from Hansard or his lunchbox to notice the unparalleled ratio of Jamie's hip to buttock to thigh. Nicholson was, of course, the worst, so very incapable of dragging his eyes above dick level that he (Malcolm was convinced) had to _retire for a period of contemplation_ and a _stern reprimand_ regarding _harassment_ and _diversity_.   
  
Malcolm was absolute. Jamie was his. And so - even if in _name only_ \- was Jamie's arse.  
  
It was all so fucking stupid. Regarding himself as much too well-evolved for any fucking self-loathing bollocks about the _receptive partner_ being in any way submissive or _subservient_ , Malcolm nevertheless noted that Jamie got away with far too fucking much, notably leaving dirty washing at his house, drinking the milk without replacing it, laying down the law regarding - for fuck's sake - the length of time Malcolm spent _sleeping_ , and smoking in the house. It also seemed both highly fucking questionable and _galling_ that a man so eminently willing to follow _any_ of Malcolm's orders (day, night, wind, prison cell) without hesitation should be so very _implacable_ on the subject of taking it up the arse.   
  
"No," Jamie said, eyes on the television, and "No," Jamie said, when Malcolm slid his hand _back there_ , even if his hips did _jump_ and his cock _twitch_ as he said it - and because Malcolm could no more have lived through Jamie _leaving him_ than he could have cheered _Rangers_ (or, indeed, because Malcolm, honestly, could no more have _hurt Jamie_ than he could have beaten himself to death), Malcolm just took it, withdrew and managed to forget the crushing disappointment and not get enraged at Jamie's _reasoning_ ("I'm the one who tops, and Match of the Day's on in ten").

So, things evolved on as they always did, with Malcolm calling him _Mowgli's fat brother_ and Jamie sneaking JOLSON stuff into the house, and about five bad rows a week and one _horrific_ one each year ("But you're _my_ stupid cunt," Jamie protested, hugging a shaking Malcolm on the stairs, "Listen, Malc, for the last time, I am not that orange _harpy_ you were stupid enough to - well DON'T CALL ME an IBROX WHORE, then, you fucking - "), and every night when it was still night and more than four hours until they had to get up again and they weren't in separate time zones and Malcolm hadn't been _kind to Julius_ , Jamie fucked Malcolm into oblivion and promised _mine_ and _beautiful_ into his hair. And then Malcolm was sweaty and shaking and unknotted against him and Jamie could gloat up at the dark and _know_ he was still _right._  
  
And after a while, Malcolm stopped asking about the fucking thing, which was a _fucking relief_ because the _last_ time, he'd done the uncharacteristic and frankly _unthinkable_ thing of suggesting they _talk about it_ , which Jamie had immediately vetoed but also felt exceptionally _bad_ about. Malcolm hadn't pushed, just _held_ him, in a way Jamie found _bewildering_ and _unmanageable_ but which he also regarded as _sneaky_. Jamie'd woken up with his head on Malcolm's chest and Malcolm stroking his back, which wasn't the usual way of things at all, but during the day things had gone back to the good old fuck-you-fuckface dynamic, and incidentally the Home Secretary'd got caught with the _babysitter_ , so there was no chance of worrying about their sex life for a while.  
  
And then Sam had to go and get seconded. To the UN.

Oh, aye, it was a fucking _brilliant_ opportunity for her, if she wanted to be gaoled for the _crime of manslaughter_ because the Wesminster Asthmatic'd nearly _coughed up a lung_ at the news. When Malcolm, white-faced and stage-eyed, had been persuaded by _multiple locked doors_ to sit the fuck down (if not to put his heid between his knees), Sam had apologised a thousand times, promised to be back in three weeks, and Jamie had stood by, stalwart, and continued to take Malcolm's pulse. He'd followed Sam (door unlocked again) out into the corridor to emphasise that she _actually had to_ come back, or the crowbar and balaclava would be getting an airing (...Sam never gave the impression of being _impressed_ by Jamie, that was the _weird thing_ about her). And then Malcolm had emitted pain and loss at some high-sonar frequency only dogs and Julius could hear, which meant the latter - God damn his shiny, baldy, _speccy_ little eyes to _hell_ \- and undertaken to find Malcolm a suitable replacement. A stand-in. Or, as Jamie was instantly and psychotically convinced, a _decoy_.  
  
Tarquin was a fucking stupid name for a fucking stupid cunt who wasn't even actually Scottish (Tarquin had never _claimed to be Scottish_ , but Jamie judged him for it anyway). A fucking stupid _lanky_ cunt (tall cunts were worse, cf OLLY REEDER Julius also) who disobeyed all the rules Jamie _lived by_ , by always being in Malcolm's office when Jamie wandered in, and by being exceptionally skilled at his job. Jamie supposed this must have happened with Sam, but he didn't _remember_ (he _hated Sam_ , Sam had gone and Julius's stupid _fairyboys_ approaching) and admittedly Sam was good at making Malcolm laugh but Jamie had never wished to _smash her face in_.   
  
And what Malcolm wanted to do to Twatface was _fuck him_. It was obvious. It actually took Jamie a few days to understand, but after sustained contemplation in the middle of a briefing, epiphany occurred and Jamie saw _everything_. He laughed long, and hollowly (it sounded rather like HO HO HO HO. Everyone round the table gave him a terrified stare, but Malcolm, impressively kept talking) before beginning to scribble notes with the fevour of a madman. Muttering words like 'knife', 'Eton' and 'jump leads', he dashed off at the end of the meeting, heading for Google and the chance to amass data for Tarquin's immediate downfall. Julius, watching the diminutive psycho gnash, foam and glee his way down the corridor, muttered something about 'Leontes', but the Comms team abhorred Shakespeare and Malcolm was having such a _nice_ chat to Tarquin. Again.  
  
But the problem with computers was that - rather like plants - they tended to die whenever Jamie bent to touch them. Entire wildernesses of WiFi and foliage had expired simultaneously just because Jamie'd got bored and wanted to tinker. And he'd never really done more than _send an email_ without damaging a desktop's CPU:  within seconds of typing Tarquin's third last name into Google, Jamie was roaring at the _blue screen of death_ and Malcolm was calling him to go pull the Foreign Secretary's hair. Leaving, of course, Tarquin free to spend hours bending and stretching and twirling his fucking perky twentysomething hairless polo-felching rugger-bugger that's-right-Julius-be-a-bit-more- _obvious_ -in-your-employment-policies arse, _all over_ Malcolm's desk.  
  
He had to die. In this, Jamie knew, he was speaking God-given, divinely-ordained truth.  
  
And then he saw, _unmistakeably_ , Malcolm ogling Tarquin's arse on the way out of _Cabinet_ and knew he'd got _everything, everything_ wrong.

 

 

For once, they were both home by half-six that evening; they had a black tie thing to change for, and then both Malcolm and Jamie needed to be _back out_ of the house by seven (by 'house', they collectively and severally meant 'Malcolm's', since that was where Jamie's decent clothes were kept and in a postcode not synonymous with stabbing. They didn't live together and never had). As usual, Jamie got home slightly before. When Malcolm arrived, Jamie was standing in the living room, fiddling with his cufflinks and with a terrified, terrifying, look on his inbred, slumbrat face.  
  
He'd had time, you see, to do some thinking.  
  
"Fuck me."  
  
"Jamie?"  
  
"I said, fuck me. I want you to." Jamie screwed up his face, waved a hand. "Jesus, Malc, don't just _stand there_ like The Man from the fucking _Pru_ , get in here."   
  
Malcolm could see that the gesticulating hand was shaking. He crossed the room, narrowly watching Jamie's face as the younger man settled both hands on the front of Malcolm's coat. Normal for Jamie, normal for them - except for the fact that Jamie's shoulders were disastrously high. Frowning deeper, Malcolm took Jamie's head by the curls and tugged it back, angling him until the light fell back over his face. "Is this some sort of _penitence_?"  
  
"No, fuck off. I said you can."  
  
Malcolm released him, abruptly. "Oh aye, _I can_ like you're some sort of fucking _corpse_." Jamie flinched; Malcolm stopped, rubbed an emaciated hand across his face. Worse only than _bored Jamie_ was _penitent Jamie_ , a silent, subdued, unfathomable creature whom Malcolm had never quite known how to deal with. They were at an awkward angle to each other; Malcolm glanced across with a feeling that was nearly desperation. He sighed. Jamie, eyes big like the imaginings of _nightmare_ , stared more fixedly at the carpet. Malcolm returned.  
  
"Look, sweetheart - " Jamie glanced up, somehow managing to inflect the big limpid pools of Christmas-orphan meets sociopath-killer with a new wideness of _surprise_. 'Sweetheart' only occurred when Malcolm was very afraid, very defeated, or exceptionally close to orgasm. He glanced sneakily at Malcolm's crotch. Although covered by a coat, it seemed unlikely Malcolm could have sex aids or Julius Nicholson stuffed up there, not without Jamie knowing.   
  
Nor did he think he was being particularly _scary_. He moved mutely into Malcolm's touch, and waited. Malcolm ran both hands over his back, distractedly - if Malcolm was starting to touch him without _realising_ it, that was another excellent omen of Jamie getting his own way. "I'm not interested in fucking you just because I can. That's what the Fast Stream's for, eh."  
  
Jamie gave a little jolt and his eyes went weird. Malcolm, aware only that _never_ was the only good time to even _joke_ about infidelity, plunged hastily on. Jamie grunted and rested his cheek on Malcolm's shoulder. "D'you actually want me to do this?"  
  
"Aye. I fuckin' _said_ \- "  
  
"Yeah, well, you said for fuckin' _months_ that I couldn't, didn't you? Is this _suppressed memory_ outbreak? Do you think if you don't, I'll - "  
  
"Stop being such a fucking _lesbian_. You're the one who's been _whinging on_ about sticking your prick up my arse, now I'm saying I'm - well, quite keen on the idea - and you're wilting like _Harvest_ bloody _Festival_. When you ought to be treating this as your seventy- all right, fifty-second birthday, because whatever I get you next year won't be as fucking good."

Malcolm just had time to marvel at the _supreme arrogance_ of Jamie regarding his sexual prowess (...not even _slightly misplaced_ , was the worst/most infuriating thing), before Jamie zoomed off, undoing his belt. "Get your kecks off, I thought we'd use the kitchen table."  
  
"You what?"   
  
"Me. Bent over. Christ, you're being _slow_ \- "  
  
"This isn't - jesus fuck, is this your conception of - if I just wanted to _bend someone over_ , you stupid cunt - "  
  
" - oh _YEAH_?" Jamie demanded, lustlight in his arms abruptly vanishing as Malcolm was confronted not by his lover but by a stamping bull with a fine red mist in front of his eyes. "You'd WHAT? Or rather, you'd _who_ , fucking _Teabag_ with his mimsy - Lord Haw-Haw and his private _bumboy_ , you'd be, why not declare fucking _Nazi bumday_ in Westminster, Julius'd love it, he's probably got fifteen _Titwanks_ in a cellar, and Tom could shove some fizzy Prozac up his arse and _Tosspot_ could _lick it out_ \- " Malcolm let Jamie jabber himself into nasty silence. The cold look in his eyes bespoke more than usual dislike.  
  
Malcolm turned his head toward the window; Jamie hadn't even heard the car. "You go first. I still need to change." He gave Jamie a final, contemptuous glare. "And try to keep your spit in, you're a fuckin' _embarassment_."  
  
"At least I don't have _cock breath_ from a fuckin' _schoolboy_."   
  
Malcolm heard Jamie slam all the doors. He nearly threw his Blackberry at the nearest. On calmer reflection, he threw an antique, instead.

 

 

Jamie stood by the bar and picked at his coaster. Everyone at the party was _stupit_ and _boring_ and Tarquin was still a titwank and Julius Nicholson - UNLIKE JAMIE, WORLD GONE MAD - was being _feted_ and _amusing_ in a cluster of his _friends_. Who all looked posh and monied but were unsurprisingly _not as bald_. Jamie wondered if he could spit in Julius's drink, from here.  
  
Everything was fucked. Even spot-the-alcoholic was _no fun_ as a distraction; Malcolm didn't want to bum Jamie, he wanted to bum Tarquin, and Sam would probably _never come back_ and even if she _did_ , Malcolm would give Tarquin _Jamie's job_ and _Jamie's bedspace_ and probably Tarquin _also_ liked satsumas for eating all day every day. And then Tarquin would probably be Prime Minister and Jamie would be forgotten and Malc would _lose his edge_ and Rangers would win the slightly revamped World Cup.  
  
And then Malcolm walked in. In his fucking ridiculous penguin suit, which Malcolm clearly found _raffish like Bond_ but which Jamie _knew_ was, once again, _fucking ridiculous_ , except for the bits of his body that just wanted to _fuck_ Malcolm, here and now and preferably in full view of the dancefloor. And Titwank Fuck-A-Duck. And _Baldemort_.  
  
Their eyes met. It was, as ever, as if no other people had ever existed. Jamie experienced the competing urges to beg forgiveness, beat Malcolm to a pulp and shout MOSCOW RULES before charging off for their next set of adventures. Malcolm's eyes were doing that thing they did right before Malcolm's non-existent, bloodless lips called him _pet_.   
  
Men with less pride and more mental health might have _acknowledged_ each other. Then Tarka The Weasel caught Malcolm's eye, and called hello.  
  
Jamie slammed his empty glass down, and went for a piss. His last image of Malcolm was of Bond's dead dad smirking sinfully at the singing Nazi from _The Producers_.

 

 

When he emerged from that silent temple of tiles and steamy flannels, Jamie was smiling beatifically. He had erred; he had been blind. But on the porcelain throne, contemplating the standard-issue bowl of pot pourri, and remembering how, as a boy, he had first felt called upon to _eat it_ , he had been found and reconciled to Truth. This fucking stupid scare with Tarquin had made him _neglect_ the oldest and most effective tools in his psycho-terror's box of tricks. Having, for a while, been wrong, he was now - baptised with a moist towelette, ritually obluted with lemon-scented soap - cleansed and ready to be _right_.  
  
He went to the bar, bought and emptied a large Scotch. Then he squinted, considered, and ordered two large glasses of whatever was the most expensive white wine.  
  
One of these glasses, he gave to Julius Nicholson.   
  
At this point, an accurate representation of Jamie's mental state would include a 15,000 word digression on the subject of why Jamie's plan was BRILLIANT and FAULTLESS. There would be swingometers and pie charts, and an enormous Venn diagram, and on p. 750 there would be a FLOWCHART of exactly _why_ his present course of action (stunning white shirt, weight on one hip) was liable to drive Malcolm _completely insane_. His plan couldn't have been more cunning or more divinely inspired if God had pushed His enormous foam finger through the ceiling of the Gents' cubicle and said This Is My Beloved Jamie, Who Shall Always Get What He Wants.   
  
It was, of course, a truth universally acknowledged that Julius Baldeville Baldison Baldemort was gay as a spoon for Malcolm 'Hieronymos Bosch' Tucker. In fact, contrary to popular belief (and in a way Jamie could never _quite_ fathom) Julius's resemblance to the silver soup spoon (with which, of course, he had first cooled his infant gums) was something he was quite cheerful about, and reasonably open within his own, selective circles. Not everyone was _mean_ and _naughty_ in the same way as Malcolm, and Julius lived quite happily. He was, of course, quite _fascinated_ by Malcolm, and Malcolm's hands, and Malcolm's cheekbones and hipbones and _neck_ \- balancing all these with a genuine appreciation for Malcolm's intellect, not outweighed by the desire to _pin him to the desk_ \- and this fascination, combined with natural inclinations to astuteness - meant he had been watching Malcolm extremely carefully over the past few days. Therefore, he was not surprised - but nor was he unamused - when James Macdonald presented him with an excellent glass of Chassagne-Montrachet (2006) and proceeded, not very subtly, to seduce him.

 

 

Julius had always _quite seen_ the point of James, as viewed through Malcolm's eyes - while he certainly lacked the whippet-thin needs-saving-from-himself _delicacy_ that Julius (silly old bosh, as he _told himself_ ) tended to attract and/or cultivate in partners, Julius thought he had the body of a Greek god and the mind and mouth of a back-alley _whore_. He was, accordingly, _not at all averse_ to letting James flirt, preen and display, while his friends looked on indulgently and young James more-or-less offered himself on a plate.   
  
Jamie was actually not hating this as much as he'd thought. Now that he'd decided that, for the good of the COUNTRY (Tarquin probably one of JB's spies and/or an alien droid) and Malc's moral FIBRE (shagging Tarquin the action of a CLASS TRAITOR, Jamie right and true end/course/partner of choice), he was, probably, prepared to let Britain's foremost Machiavel and political genius have his wicked way with him, he was beginning to look forward to it. And Julius, somewhat horrifically but very _luckily_ , was turning out to be exceptionally good at flirting, _and_ a vry good sport. Jamie was beginning to get mesmerised by the balletic gesticulations of his very large, strong white hands, like a cat staring at seagulls. He didn't notice the other hand making its way across the room towards him.  
  
This hand was sinew and bone. This hand was gristle and bloodless flesh and had been the instrument of death with pen, laptop and Blackberry keypad. The hand was attached to the rest of Malcolm Tucker, and it was proceeding like a nuclear missile across the conference room, in a sharp white arc of fury, with Jamie directly in his path.  
  
Jamie just had time to smirk at Julius before he was caught.  
  
Malcolm didn't slow his pace for a second. He kept up his trajectory, present fury and future ultra-violence, with Jamie's shoulder in one hand, through doors and corridors and finally into his ultimate, planned destination of an empty, mirrored lift. Julius's last glimpse of James, past Malcolm's flared nostrils and white lips and murderous, hawk-like eyes, was of a very smug, short Scotsman smiling beatifically as he was dragged out of sight.

 

 

For a while, they didn't speak. Malcolm was more concerned with hitting lift buttons and slamming Jamie against mirrored surfaces until he found one to his liking. Then, and only then, did he sink his teeth into Jamie's underlip and remove Jamie's hand from his arse. "What the _fuck_ ," he hissed, starting on Jamie's shirt buttons (he was either overconfident nobody _else_ would want the lift between here and floor - shit, floor _12_ , or he didn't care, or he'd _killed everyone_ on the intervening floors) and removing Jamie's hand from his arse _again_ , "did you think you were playing at? Fucking - like a fucking _whore_."  
  
Jamie lifted his chin. Appearance of defiance was crucial to _the plan_. "Didn't think you'd care. Thought you'd be too busy pouring Twatweasel's slavery-flavoured _come_ down your throat." Malcolm could not find the _words_ with which to reply to this stupidity. He slammed Jamie against the wall, _again_ , and made the noise of something clawed and terrifying as filmed shortly before it devours its pray. Jamie's eyes danced.   
  
"Like a fucking _whore_ ," he managed again, nearly _wheezing_ with mingled lust and fury - he shut his eyes, but not for long enough, and - on catching the _unmistakeably smug_ look on Jamie's twatted face, pulled the little shit up by the hair. " _Mine_ ," he insisted, voice low and urgent against his ear, and able to pinpoint the _instant_ when the little _cuntface_ went from two-by-four smugness-colossus (oh aye, spectacularly fucking _subtle_ that'd been, get Julius _plastered_ and then _shove his crotch in his face_ , he'd have had to be deaf, blind and _buried_ not to notice that, well fucking _done_ Jamie) to whimpering, _trembling_ wreck.  
  
Jamie had about thirty urgent seconds of realising - through booze and bravado - that he might, just might, have bitten off more than he could chew. Somewhere he'd gone from regarding Malcolm fucking him as _terrifying_ to _a necessary piece of realpolitik_ to _desirable_ to a place where there was no thought, only Malcolm's hands pinning him to the wall and Malcolm's voice telling him that if he ever, _ever_ looked at _anyone_ like that again, Malcolm would kill him. Because Malcolm _owned_ him, he'd _personally fetched him_ out of the primordial _swamp_ of fucking _Motherwell_ , and now Jamie _belonged_ to him, and somewhere in Jamie's tiny static-shocked brain two tiny synapses lined up and sparked with the realisation that _this was how to get Malcolm's attention_. This was what being in receipt of all the _attention_ and the _want_ and the _power_ actually felt like.   
  
He went automatically and totally pliant. "Fuck me."   
  
Malcolm snarled. "I'm going to. You won't sit down for a fucking week, do you - " The lift stopped, doors opening at level 12. Like a pantomime villain, Malcolm looked darkly both ways before dragging Jamie forwards and hauling him towards a door marked 1206. Malcolm's terrifying composure broke only for a _second_ as he glanced back to see if Jamie was going to question _why_ and _when_ Malcolm had booked them a - a double room with a fucking _jacuzzi_ and _mirrors everywhere_ (usually Malcolm couldn't stand mirrors, usually he thought they were full of Soviet spies, and more than once Malcolm had given Jamie to understand that JB would snog a hoodie before Malcolm booked them a hotel room together), _jesus_ it looked even flashier than he'd thought - but actually Jamie was too busy rubbing up against him and _begging_ and Malcolm needed to fuck him into the bed slightly more than he needed air or thought and certainly a lot more than he needed rational conversation.

 

There was a nasty possibility one or both of them might come before they got any clothes off (not coming _before he got inside Jamie_   seemed like an _utter_ impossibility, Malcolm was _already_ counting fucking backwards in his head along with the names of _USDAW leaders_ ), or a possibility they were never going to get a rhythm because every time Jamie made a _keening_ noise, Malcolm broke off to stare at him, and also the possibility Malcolm was going to have a heart attack before this got any further. Jamie was begging and babbling and Malc kept _looking at him like that_ and Jamie actually wanted a personal talk with God about the _fucking shitty advice_   He'd been sending down, because this was the BEST IDEA EVER because apparently if you let Malcolm Tucker fuck you he looked at you like you were God and the Second Coming, all in one.  
  
Malcolm got them both undressed in minimum time and with maximum efficiency. Jamie, by now at a stage where even the sound of their _shirt studs_ falling to the carpet was painfully erotic, rolled on top of Malcolm twice just for the drunken luxury of having Malcolm pin him back down. He was back to looking smug, and so was Malcolm, licking down over sweat-slicked, bite-marked once-owned skin, until he reached the one part of Jamie's body that was, to all intents and purposes, virgin ground. He faltered. Tight as a fucking virgin. Even the most cursory approach sent Jamie bolting upwards like a clockwork Igor in an Hallowe'en box. Malcolm looked so cowed and so _guilty_ that Jamie pulled him into a hug. "You didnae hurt me, you _wouldn't_ , all right, we just need some lube."  
  
"I didn't bring it - for fuck's _sake_ , I didn't know you were going to fellate Julius at the buffet, I didn't _plan_ \- "  
  
" - hand lotion. Shampoo. No, fuck, you're always _allergic_. BEER, we can use BEER, try the minibar."  
  
"We can't use _beer_ ," Malcolm protested, but he was already on his knees and hauling it open, debating helplessly between bitter and lager before bringing both and wincing at the cost. "Are you sure this'll work?"  
  
Jamie raked a hand back through his curls, wriggled back down onto his back. "Always used to."  
  
"You've let someone _do this before_?"  
  
"No." Jamie scowled. "Aye. Once. I didn't like it. Fuck's sake, stop _talking_ , just... "  
  
"Jamie. If you don't - "  
  
"Malc, this really isn't the - I love you," said Jamie, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and the best way to win an argument. "And _do I look_ like I don't want, or like I've got _time_ for one of your big jessie freakouts?"  
  
Malcolm surprised them both by shutting up, kissing Jamie, and pouring a quarter of the first can. Jamie sniggered childishly at the spectacle. There was a pause for concentration.  
  
"You do actually know what you're looking for," Jamie queried, after a second. His voice was somewhat strained. Malcolm shot him a look of utter disdain, spilling a bit more beer. His legs had started to twitch.

"If I start hurting you, we stop."  
  
"Aye, I promise not to sacrifice myself to the higher impulses of letting you tear my fucking _rectum_ apart in the name o'your feelings."  
  
"Jesus, can you not say _rectum_ , you twat - I said it because I fucking - "  
  
" - because you can't stand the sight of me with someone else you _fuck jesus shit_." His voice had shot up two octaves. His legs, either side of Malcolm's waist, were trembling. "Oh fuck. Oh cunting Christ on a one-man canoe, _fuck_ , Malcolm." Malcolm froze. He managed, after a second, to open his eyes - Jamie was emitting _whimpers_ and his face was taut with the strain. Malcolm immediately withdrew; Jamie grabbed his wrist.  
  
"Don't," he panted. "More, just. Please. Malc. Need, _please_."  
  
It was that second 'please' that did it. Malcolm found himself covering Jamie, shaking like a fucking _virgin_ as he stretched and teased him, making Jamie buck and clutch and nearly sob out his solitary ecstasy under Malcolm's mouth and around his fingers. He moved to kiss Jamie's face,  tongue his neck and ear, relieved to think Jamie probably couldn't _hear_ him as he fisted a handful of Malcolm's hair and _whined_ his pleasure. Malcolm kept adding fingers till to do so was both optimistic and anatomically unlikely, then drew back.  
  
"Jamie," he breathed, settling on his elbows and willing the gods of illicit sex and the headlines in yesterday's _FT_ to keep him sane as he pushed inside him. Jamie let forth another rip of profanity and then went silent, so silent that Malcolm, terrified anew (and trying hard to control the urge just to _fuck_ and be damned) found himself peering down at him in terror. Jamie's voice, when it came, was deeper than Malcolm remembered.  
  
"If you stop," he said slowly, "I will chain you to the Cenotaph and set you on fire."

Malcolm let out a breath he'd been holding for hours, and slowly, _very_ carefully, began to move. Jamie managed a few more bouts of impatience, heels kicking at Malcolm's arse for encouragement and then locking there _forever_ as Malcolm found his rhythm (he was on Turkish Prime Ministers now, counting back through time until he could be certain they'd managed the mechanics of penetrative sex for a non-embarassing amount of time) and Jamie's head fell back onto the mattress. Inch by inch, they moved, Jamie _writhing_ , almost _begging_ , preview of forthcoming attractions abruptly replaced by the summer blockbuster of this or any pornographic year. Mouth open, eyes shut, hands scrabbling at the bedsheets or clutching Malcolm's back; trying to bury his face in Malcolm's neck, from which Malcolm _debarred_ him by the careful expedient of explaining, one hand in his hair, that he _needed to see Jamie's face_ , when he made him come. Jamie whined, clung, shook harder against him.   
  
The idea. The _idea_ of him, with Julius. With anyone. Malcolm remembered the first fucking time he'd seen Jamie flirt with another man, back in Jamie's halycon politiwhoring days when shoulderpads were in and so were Glaswegian pressmen with the minds of devious rentboys. Malcolm hadn't called himself bi then, had barely _thought_ it - certainly hadn't _connected_ his desire to throttle his grinning, self-preening colleague with the desire to pin him to the sheets every night for the _rest of their lives_ \- but he consciously remembered that first second of seeing Jamie's eyes dancing at the slow grin of some _mouthbreathing_ MP, and crushing the urge to walk over and punch him. The MP. Not Jamie. His plan for Jamie, that time, hadn't got beyond giving him a kick round the ear and telling him _not to shag the Unionists_.   
  
He'd been _flirting_ with Julius. He'd have let Julius _touch him_ , on some trumped-up charge of fucking _inanity_ , the historically stupid, misplaced belief that he, Malcolm, was senile or sex-mad enough to put his cock up the arse of some chinless well-gummed _cuntrag_ , doubtless _teeming_ with Old Etonian STIs. When Malcolm _had Jamie_. And _Jamie_ , as Malcolm finally, embarrassingly _told him_ , close to a sob, fingers flickering over Jamie's hair, his jaw, the pulse in his throat was _all_ (allowing for power, and political victories, and other considerations that went unsaid but which Malcolm was prepared to relinquish for this heartbeat) Malcolm had _ever wanted_.   
  
And now here they were, him buried in the searing heat of _Jamie_ and unable, totally unable, to close his eyes and stop _watching_ the revelation taking place beneath him. Jamie, eyes screwed shut or wide with shock, _whimpering_ , trembling, and by comparison making _anything_ Malcolm wanted to say excusable (and he said a lot, murmuring against Jamie's jaw, his _throat_ , stroking his skin with _infinite_ fucking gentleness and still _shaking_ with fury that anyone else could have _dared_ to touch him). Helpless with fucking adoration was an occupational hazard when dealing with Jamie: Malcolm was only _relieved_ that Jamie was much too far gone, and knew Malcolm too well, to ever _expect_ Malcolm to _voice it_.   
  
All Jamie felt was _Malcolm_ , fucking him and _watching_ him and nothing, _nothing_ like the time before and it was too much and then there wasn't anything else.

When Jamie came, he cried out and shut his eyes, wracking hard against him - Malcolm, more with relief than anything else, gave way to follow suit, and promptly embarassed himself with the kind of orgasm you're only meant to have when you're _sixteen_ , and one which, in retrospect, he should be bloody grateful didn't get have the neighbours banging on the wall. Jamie was still muttering about saints we never take the time to worship; Malcolm caught him and held him, and choked out his last cries into his hair.  
  
When he next had a conscious thought, he realised the bed was flooded with jizz and beer. Malcolm put his knee in a pool of the latter, and winced. Jamie was _still_ shaking, which was more immediately alarming; unable to see his face, Malcolm swore and _rolled_ them, largely out of the disaster zone, until he was lying on his back and had Jamie level with his heart.

Possession, Malcolm was aware, was keeping up a satiated murmor in his blood, making him slow and gentle with Jamie, unspeakably relieved when the younger man uncurled and recurled against him, head on his chest, damp dark curls against his neck. Possession, too, made Malcolm trace a slow drowsy spiral up and down Jamie's spine (his own back, Jamie had marked with _nails_ ; Malcolm still heard his own _hiss_ of pleasure). He couldn't honestly remember feeling so fucking _tired_ in his life.   
  
He'd vaguely intended for the first post-coital line to be something about how if Jamie ever looked at another man, ever, Malcolm would gut the fucker and then bring Jamie back here (or possibly just to the nearest upholstered surface) and _do this all over again_. Except that Jamie was actually finally fucking _nestled_ against him, and there was no way he was going to make (a pause while his minded auditioned and rejected suitable epithets) _what just happened_ sound _anything like_ a threat. His hand was stroking mechanically over Jamie's head and shoulders, and the little - he was practically _purring_ , less like any sort of human than a temporarily-domesticated mentally-imbalanced _cat_.   
  
Malcolm didn't know whether to send Old Baldy a dead fish in the post, or flowers. Dragging the clean side of the bedspread over them (with some frankly incriminating dialogue about _sweetheart_ and _move_ , _you'll catch fuckin' cold_ ), pressing a distracted kiss into Jamie's hairline (Jamie was already asleep, as evinced by his having become ten times heavier and a hundred more immovable, against him), he mentally compromised on confectionery. Ten dozen chocolate dicks, by post. He'd have the order dashed off in the morning. Gingerly seeking a more comfortable sleeping position, Malcolm winced. The bed was _submerged_. Disentangling himself from Jamie, Malcolm made his fastidious, appalled way to the bathroom (averting his eyes from the naked, grey-pubed corpse in the long mirror, but giving the hawk-eyed charlatan's mask in the shaver a wary grin) and returned with the two fluffy dressing gowns and towels. The latter he laid over the worse half of the bed; the former replaced the sticky, possibly ruined coverlet. He checked both their Blackberries, stabbed his foot on a discarded press stud (the swearing made Jamie grunt, half in sleep - Malcolm was appalled to hear himself breathe _whist_ and start _nuzzling_ hm) and folded them back into their chaotic, contraband nest. Jamie reestablished his head on Malcolm's chest. Malcolm tried to pretend he wasn't breathing him. His decimated mind skimmed abortively over the issues of the (next) day, then decided not to bother. Doubtless catastrophe would present itself in a few hours. Political fuckup had _always_ known where to find him.  
  
"Rangers fuckers," said Jamie suddenly, in his sleep. "Kill the English. Key to the horse."  
  
"That's right, sweetheart," Malcolm murmured, on reflex. After so long it hardly bothered him; it was sometimes a comforting counterpart to his own insomnia. But he didn't think sleep would have much success in eluding him tonight. He closed his eyes, breathed in Jamie, and waited, asleep or waking, for dawn. Tomorrow was the day for finding out who'd been up Jamie's crack before him. And how and why he'd put Jamie off the whole idea. Malcolm had already planned the subsequent abduction and death.   
  
And tomorrow was the day Sam came back. Fucking excellent. He'd have to send - whoever it was - a card. Timothy? Eyes shut, Malcolm frowned. Tristram? Thomason? Surely it wasn't fucking _Tonto_.   
  
Hmm. Not like him to be unable to remember. He gave it up as a bad job, kissed Jamie's hair once more, and slept.   
  
Deep in a triumphant dream, Jamie smiled.


End file.
